Page 18 of Gross Misconduct

I dump the dustpan into the trash.

“It’s for the best.” He sweeps another round of broken pots into my pan. “Your hockey days are over.”

He lets out another snort. It makes me want to gag.

“Says who?”

“Says the league and anyone who watched you play. By your last year on the ice, you were…you were definitely not at your peak. That’s for damn sure. I still tuned into your games, and they were all painful to watch.”

“I’d been traded to four different teams in four years.” It’s hard rebuilding trust with a new coach, constantly being the new guy, finding my groove with teammates who never expected me to last. After my fourth cross-country move, the exhaustion hugged me like a weighted vest. My body was tired from playing. My mind was tired from thinking about how I fucked up my career. My heart was tired from caring.

“You lost it, whatever you had.” Dad keeps sweeping, as if he’s talking about car keys and not the thing I revolved my life around. “No sense making another fool of yourself here. Can you imagine? A professional hockey player getting his ass whipped by a bunch of amateurs.”

He lets out another snort. I’ve barely known Dad to laugh at anything, and now he’s acting like he’s watching the funniest stand-up in his life.

Anger gushes through me. I am a damn good hockey player. I made one really bad pass in one very important game, but that doesn’t get to wipe away the years of effort and energy I put in. He can hate me for being late. He can hate me for not being a wealthy athlete that can rescue him from this life. But he doesn’t get to say I’m a shitty player.

Dad crumples up the flyer and tosses it into the trash. I immediately fish it out.

“Actually, I’ve changed my mind. I feel like getting back on the ice.”

I haven’t lost anything. It’s merely been in hibernation.

“What are you doing?” he asks as I untie the purple apron of doom.

“And another thing: I quit.”

“The hell you do.”

Dad’s snort laugh is the straw that breaks this camel’s back. I can’t spend another shift under his disapproving eye.

I whip off the apron and throw it on the ground where it lays with the shattered pots. “Next time, don’t set up these displays so close together.”

I turn and stroll out, like one of those cool guys in movies that doesn’t look back at explosions.

“Come back here!” he yells.

I ignore him and keep walking.

7

GRIFFIN

My former teammates watch from the front steps of Summers Rink slack-jawed as I walk up the concrete, cracked-filled path, two big lampposts guiding my way. It’s still dark out this early in the morning, but even with my eye closed, I could make it to the front door. The building is at the end of a cul-de-sac in an office park, the pot of nondescript gold at the end of a winding path of anonymous buildings and warehouses. Were it not for the skate logo on the front door, nobody would ever know this was a hockey rink, the place where legends were born and built. Also the place with free skate most afternoons.

“Holy crap,” Tanner says.

“He lives,” Des remarks.

Bill and I exchange a nod of acknowledgment.

Hank starts a slow clap, which the others join in on. It reaches its deafening climax when I reach the front door. Nobody ever saw a bunch of guys this excited before six in the morning.

I want to tell them to shut up, but I find myself the teensiest bit choked up. I don’t deserve any of this fanfare, but I’m grateful they think I do. I missed the camaraderie of a team as much as the game itself.

“I told you stripping telegrams work!” Hank says to Bill.

“He’s back, gents. He’s fucking back.” Bill claps me on the shoulder and guides me through the door.

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